


The Work of Our Hands

by noun



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Paris | Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:15:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26164735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noun/pseuds/noun
Summary: A handbreadth from the glass, he could do with a negligent elbow in seconds what the mobs had not managed in years. With that in mind, he turned to look down very slowly.Written forThe Eagle's Pathzine.
Kudos: 14
Collections: The Eagle's Path | An Assassin's Creed Zine





	The Work of Our Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the other artists, writers, and generally incredibly talented crew that also worked on The Eagle's Path zine. Especial thanks to [iownfish](https://twitter.com/iownedfish), who drew the illustration that this piece accompanied.

The limestone was wet from last night’s rain, and he could feel the water seeping in between the stitching of his gloves. The masonry of the building was pockmarked with damage made by both time and men, rain and bullets; easy foot- and hand-holds that he could use to haul himself up onto the roofs of the city. From there, he was the master of all he surveyed, at the price of ruined gloves that offered a little protection for his hands. He took to buying pairs from the ragpickers and rationing out what he bought new, knowing rough use tore through the leather. But even with the wet, he was sure of his hold. 

Barring, of course, a loose tile leading to a fall and an early death, but what was life without a little risk?

It was the slim hour between the workers beginning their day and the bourgeois beginning theirs. Most of the beggar slept while the drunkards stumbled home. It was his hour, as all hours were his, as the city was his. 

Across the square, the church— the temple, Arno reasoned— stood, as it had stood for centuries. That was no guarantee of continued survival, not now, but there was no imminent crowd bent on its destruction, so he had time to indulge his impulse. Neither were there bells left to call out the hour and draw attention to the temple or someone venturing inside. He could count on one lone figure going unremarked upon if he was quick.

He dropped down to earth on a side street, lingering near the buildings as he walked to the side of the structure. A quick glance revealed no guards, and a yawning maw of an entrance, the door kicked open wide. Arno took it as ample invitation, sliding inside. He had to blink to adjust to the dark, and the eye-watering smell. There were leftovers from the various bacchanalias held here, the speeches given, and in the light from the windows far overhead, he could see them; the broken glass, the discarded pamphlets, the filthy straw. 

Arno ventured in further, reassured when he heard nothing stirring at the sound of his boots beyond the scurry of a rat or two. He would not have been surprised to find people sleeping here. Perhaps there were, and he had only managed not to wake them. Still, he saw none as he walked on.

Ahead, what had been the altar was now left with far more pagan decoration, but Arno suspected the wine bottle was empty, though it lay unbroken. The flame was extinguished. 

He turned to his left to regard the window. The sun was higher now, if barely, and the light streaming through the stained glass was bright enough to cut through all the darkness of the interior of the temple. The stained glass window had survived when the saints had not. Perhaps because there was nothing to behead? No symbolic merit in being deprived of the climactic event? No one with an arm strong enough to throw a rock to shatter it?

Perhaps it was awe. 

No, too sentimental.

Arno weighed his chances of being discovered, or the old stone being unable to shatter his weight, or the chance of having the opportunity again, and found the balance to be in his favor. Two or three steps spent running and a leap had him up and climbing. Here too were the pockmarks, but also the ornamental carving that gave him a better handhold, pulling himself up, judging his ability to jump for the next handhold when they proved sparse. 

A final scramble had him on the jut of stone above the row of Saints, who leered at him as he hauled himself past them. A handbreadth from the glass, he could do with a negligent elbow in seconds what the mobs had not managed in years. With that in mind, he turned to look down very slowly.

A prism of color sparkled on his own clothes. Now the sun lit all the windows on the east side, bright enough that the absence of the light cast on the floor outlined his silhouette clearly. Move an arm, and the void on the floor so far below waved back. It was not enough to entertain him for long. Always in the back of his mind was the thought of being caught, and the ensuing scramble. He had had his fun.

Again, the turn was slow and judged. His fingers brushed the lattice of stone and metal that held the glass in place. The statues had been beheaded, the bells melted, the altar desecrated, but the windows remained. 

Climbing down took less of the scrambling that climbing up had. His thoughts continued to loop around the subject, even once he was hidden in the shadows and sneaking back out towards the door. Would the bells ever ring again? Would the whole structure be razed to the ground? In times like these, who could tell, but it was damned impossible for it to be entirely as it had been before.

Still, he hoped the windows remained.

**Author's Note:**

> "Isn't it a little cliche to write about Notre Dame?"
> 
> shhhh I know what I like.


End file.
